


Three Thousand Four Hundred Miles

by kingofthe_nightvoid



Category: Generation X, Marvel, X-Men, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Mild neglect, Parental Relationships, i cant write for shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:29:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofthe_nightvoid/pseuds/kingofthe_nightvoid
Summary: Jonothon Starsmore gets homesick a lot, but sometimes he wonders why he misses his family at all.





	Three Thousand Four Hundred Miles

4 a.m.//9 a.m.  
Parents were fickle things, Jono already knew that. By the age of thirty nine, most adults knew that for certain.  
Cultural differences were fine, and by now Jono was actually pretty accustomed to American holidays and he found his own little way to do his English things in his own bubble (despite making an open protest against the Fourth of July. He found that part pretty funny.) But, there was a few holidays that he knew he couldn’t avoid. 

Laying for a moment, contemplating, Jonothon traced his hip tattoo with the vague idea that he had of how the words swirled and twisted, the phrase resonating somewhere new like they did every time. ’I’m the son and the heir of nothing in particular.’ Yeah, sounds about right. Maybe Erik Erikson had the right idea after all. Mother’s Day and Father’s Day had never been major events to the Starsmores, it was deemed too emotional. Then again, he was British, most things had been deemed too emotional over there.

When he was seven, he made a Father’s Day card for his father and his grandfather, like all the other kids at school. He watched Jack throw it in the fire, his father just scowled over his glass of port. Jono had just shrugged it off, going to play with his transformers. He wasn’t allowed to cry in front of them anyway. It was just a daft card.

Age thirteen he’d been doing a paper run, to save up for a guitar. He wasn’t sure when it’d happened, but the family fortune had been pissed away—he wasn’t allowed a guitar. 1993 Jono got his guitar from a pawn shop on the high street, it’d taken six months. He wrote his mother a song. He didn’t get to keep his guitar for much longer after that. It was okay though, he stole it back from the cellar later, when they moved out of the big house in the main city. 

Age seventeen, Jono didnt live at home, he lived in a two bedroom flat with four other guys and sometimes their girlfriends. Or boyfriends. It didn’t matter. Fuck Tony Blair, Fuck Margret Thatcher, they were wankers anyway, they didn’t know what they were doing. He went home maybe every other week, when he didn’t have a gig to play. A year out of school, he worked behind a bar...sort of. It was a long story, but they all got by, even if the kitchen door wasn’t there anymore, even if the light in the kitchen didn’t work, if there wasn’t enough beds. They usually have each other piercings, with fake vodka and pins. Even now Jono wondered how none of them got chlamydia or something in their eyebrows, or their ears. Roses, a hand drawn card and a ring Gayle had helped him pick was on the order that year. It was a long story, but it didn’t go well. ”Jonothon, you should go, you know your mother is of a nervous disposition.” Bullshit. ”Jonny, he has a point. You don’t...belong here.” Now that sounded more like it.

So, following that, there was no more visits. For years there was no contact, an arrangement that suited them all, considering he’d basically ran away. They didn’t notice for a long time, it suited him that way. And then, Jono went back to London, getting involved with controversial pop stars. Of course, the first thing that was said to break the ice was something along the lines of keeping the family name out of this mess. It was always the family name, the one that was linked the a ruined business man, a drug addicted police officer, a cult. He kept a hold of the number, his mom was sick, it was always best to have a few less regrets. The texts were always short, getting the message across and then nothing more, they didn’t need to know what he did. They didn’t care, in his mind. 

‘Happy Mother’s Day, mother, have a good day. I hope you and father are in better health.’ Yeah, that’ll do.

The response almost made him laugh, if that were possible. Not an amused, more cynical.  
‘Who is this?’ Was the text that came through a few minutes later. Didn’t that just sum everything up.  
‘Your son, Jonothon, mum.’ He shot back after a sensitive moment.  
‘I don’t know who that is.  
Yeah, okay, now that bit hurt. 

Mother’s Day was a daft occasion anyway, he’d concluded many times. He didn’t even want to be born, why should he be grateful for it? That was Jono’s usual quip about it. But really, everything was okay. He had Jubilee, he had Paige, he had his kids. Yeah, that made things better. The X-Men (despite their faults, the wonky morals) were good, they always held an air of good. That was his real family, the ones he really truly cared for, the ones he’d do anything for.

This was all fine, he had his real family.


End file.
